Nana by Émile Zola (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📕

>out of the theater. You understand, eh? Prompt side and O.P. side

or I forbid Rose to bring you here at all.”

 

When he returned to the prince’s presence the latter asked what was

the matter.

 

“Oh, nothing at all,” he murmured quietly.

 

Nana was standing wrapped in furs, talking to these gentlemen while

awaiting her cue. As Count Muffat was coming up in order to peep

between two of the wings at the stage, he understood from a sign

made him by the stage manager that he was to step softly. Drowsy

warmth was streaming down from the flies, and in the wings, which

were lit by vivid patches of light, only a few people remained,

talking in low voices or making off on tiptoe. The gasman was at

his post amid an intricate arrangement of cocks; a fireman, leaning

against the side lights, was craning forward, trying to catch a

glimpse of things, while on his seat, high up, the curtain man was

watching with resigned expression, careless of the play, constantly

on the alert for the bell to ring him to his duty among the ropes.

And amid the close air and the shuffling of feet and the sound of

whispering, the voices of the actors on the stage sounded strange,

deadened, surprisingly discordant. Farther off again, above the

confused noises of the band, a vast breathing sound was audible. It

was the breath of the house, which sometimes swelled up till it

burst in vague rumors, in laughter, in applause. Though invisible,

the presence of the public could be felt, even in the silences.

 

“There’s something open,” said Nana sharply, and with that she

tightened the folds of her fur cloak. “Do look, Barillot. I bet

they’ve just opened a window. Why, one might catch one’s death of

cold here!”

 

Barillot swore that he had closed every window himself but suggested

that possibly there were broken panes about. The actors were always

complaining of drafts. Through the heavy warmth of that gaslit

region blasts of cold air were constantly passing—it was a regular

influenza trap, as Fontan phrased it.

 

“I should like to see YOU in a low-cut dress,” continued Nana,

growing annoyed.

 

“Hush!” murmured Bordenave.

 

On the stage Rose rendered a phrase in her duet so cleverly that the

stalls burst into universal applause. Nana was silent at this, and

her face grew grave. Meanwhile the count was venturing down a

passage when Barillot stopped him and said he would make a discovery

there. Indeed, he obtained an oblique back view of the scenery and

of the wings which had been strengthened, as it were, by a thick

layer of old posters. Then he caught sight of a corner of the

stage, of the Etna cave hollowed out in a silver mine and of

Vulcan’s forge in the background. Battens, lowered from above, lit

up a sparkling substance which had been laid on with large dabs of

the brush. Side lights with red glasses and blue were so placed as

to produce the appearance of a fiery brazier, while on the floor of

the stage, in the far background, long lines of gaslight had been

laid down in order to throw a wall of dark rocks into sharp relief.

Hard by on a gentle, “practicable” incline, amid little points of

light resembling the illumination lamps scattered about in the grass

on the night of a public holiday, old Mme Drouard, who played Juno,

was sitting dazed and sleepy, waiting for her cue.

 

Presently there was a commotion, for Simonne, while listening to a

story Clarisse was telling her, cried out:

 

“My! It’s the Tricon!”

 

It was indeed the Tricon, wearing the same old curls and looking as

like a litigious great lady as ever.

 

When she saw Nana she went straight up to her.

 

“No,” said the latter after some rapid phrases had been exchanged,

“not now.” The old lady looked grave. Just then Prulliere passed

by and shook hands with her, while two little chorus girls stood

gazing at her with looks of deep emotion. For a moment she seemed

to hesitate. Then she beckoned to Simonne, and the rapid exchange

of sentences began again.

 

“Yes,” said Simonne at last. “In half an hour.”

 

But as she was going upstairs again to her dressing room, Mme Bron,

who was once more going the rounds with letters, presented one to

her. Bordenave lowered his voice and furiously reproached the

portress for having allowed the Tricon to come in. That woman! And

on such an evening of all others! It made him so angry because His

Highness was there! Mme Bron, who had been thirty years in the

theater, replied quite sourly. How was she to know? she asked. The

Tricon did business with all the ladies—M. le Directeur had met her

a score of times without making remarks. And while Bordenave was

muttering oaths the Tricon stood quietly by, scrutinizing the prince

as became a woman who weighs a man at a glance. A smile lit up her

yellow face. Presently she paced slowly off through the crowd of

deeply deferential little women.

 

“Immediately, eh?” she queried, turning round again to Simonne.

 

Simonne seemed much worried. The letter was from a young man to

whom she had engaged herself for that evening. She gave Mme Bron a

scribbled note in which were the words, “Impossible tonight,

darling—I’m booked.” But she was still apprehensive; the young man

might possibly wait for her in spite of everything. As she was not

playing in the third act, she had a mind to be off at once and

accordingly begged Clarisse to go and see if the man were there.

Clarisse was only due on the stage toward the end of the act, and so

she went downstairs while Simonne ran up for a minute to their

common dressing room.

 

In Mme Bron’s drinking bar downstairs a super, who was charged with

the part of Pluto, was drinking in solitude amid the folds of a

great red robe diapered with golden flames. The little business

plied by the good portress must have been progressing finely, for

the cellarlike hole under the stairs was wet with emptied heeltaps

and water. Clarisse picked up the tunic of Iris, which was dragging

over the greasy steps behind her, but she halted prudently at the

turn in the stairs and was content simply to crane forward and peer

into the lodge. She certainly had been quick to scent things out!

Just fancy! That idiot La Faloise was still there, sitting on the

same old chair between the table and the stove! He had made

pretense of sneaking off in front of Simonne and had returned after

her departure. For the matter of that, the lodge was still full of

gentlemen who sat there gloved, elegant, submissive and patient as

ever. They were all waiting and viewing each other gravely as they

waited. On the table there were now only some dirty plates, Mme

Bron having recently distributed the last of the bouquets. A single

fallen rose was withering on the floor in the neighborhood of the

black cat, who had lain down and curled herself up while the kittens

ran wild races and danced fierce gallops among the gentlemen’s legs.

Clarisse was momentarily inclined to turn La Faloise out. The idiot

wasn’t fond of animals, and that put the finishing touch to him! He

was busy drawing in his legs because the cat was there, and he

didn’t want to touch her.

 

“He’ll nip you; take care!” said Pluto, who was a joker, as he went

upstairs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

After that Clarisse gave up the idea of hauling La Faloise over the

coals. She had seen Mme Bron giving the letter to Simonne’s young

man, and he had gone out to read it under the gas light in the

lobby. “Impossible tonight, darling—I’m booked.” And with that he

had peaceably departed, as one who was doubtless used to the

formula. He, at any rate, knew how to conduct himself! Not so the

others, the fellows who sat there doggedly on Mme Bron’s battered

straw-bottomed chairs under the great glazed lantern, where the heat

was enough to roast you and there was an unpleasant odor. What a

lot of men it must have held! Clarisse went upstairs again in

disgust, crossed over behind scenes and nimbly mounted three flights

of steps which led to the dressing rooms, in order to bring Simonne

her reply.

 

Downstairs the prince had withdrawn from the rest and stood talking

to Nana. He never left her; he stood brooding over her through

half-shut eyelids. Nana did not look at him but, smiling, nodded

yes. Suddenly, however, Count Muffat obeyed an overmastering

impulse, and leaving Bordenave, who was explaining to him the

working of the rollers and windlasses, he came up in order to

interrupt their confabulations. Nana lifted her eyes and smiled at

him as she smiled at His Highness. But she kept her ears open

notwithstanding, for she was waiting for her cue.

 

“The third act is the shortest, I believe,” the prince began saying,

for the count’s presence embarrassed him.

 

She did not answer; her whole expression altered; she was suddenly

intent on her business. With a rapid movement of the shoulders she

had let her furs slip from her, and Mme Jules, standing behind, had

caught them in her arms. And then after passing her two hands to

her hair as though to make it fast, she went on the stage in all her

nudity.

 

“Hush, hush!” whispered Bordenave.

 

The count and the prince had been taken by surprise. There was

profound silence, and then a deep sigh and the far-off murmur of a

multitude became audible. Every evening when Venus entered in her

godlike nakedness the same effect was produced. Then Muffat was

seized with a desire to see; he put his eye to the peephole. Above

and beyond the glowing arc formed by the footlights the dark body of

the house seemed full of ruddy vapor, and against this neutral-tinted background, where row upon row of faces struck a pale,

uncertain note, Nana stood forth white and vast, so that the boxes

from the balcony to the flies were blotted from view. He saw her

from behind, noted her swelling hips, her outstretched arms, while

down on the floor, on the same level as her feet, the prompter’s

head—an old man’s head with a humble, honest face—stood on the

edge of the stage, looking as though it had been severed from the

body. At certain points in her opening number an undulating

movement seemed to run from her neck to her waist and to die out in

the trailing border of her tunic. When amid a tempest of applause

she had sung her last note she bowed, and the gauze floated forth

round about her limbs, and her hair swept over her waist as she bent

sharply backward. And seeing her thus, as with bending form and

with exaggerated hips she came backing toward the count’s peephole,

he stood upright again, and his face was very white. The stage had

disappeared, and he now saw only the reverse side of the scenery

with its display of old posters pasted up in every direction. On

the practicable slope, among the lines of gas jets, the whole of

Olympus had rejoined the dozing Mme Drouard. They were waiting for

the close of the act. Bosc and Fontan sat on the floor with their

knees drawn up to their chins, and Prulliere stretched himself and

yawned before going on. Everybody was worn out; their eyes were

red, and they were longing to go home to sleep.

 

Just then Fauchery, who had been prowling about